


the history of human desire

by laughtershock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-15
Packaged: 2017-11-05 09:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughtershock/pseuds/laughtershock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The entire history of human desire takes seventy minutes to tell. Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the history of human desire

The unsmoked cigarette that lies on the carpet is bent and crushed, probably by a designer shoe, probably on purpose.

Sebastian knows this because the room still smells faintly of Jim Moriarty’s trademark cologne; the scent will dissipate from the air completely within another two hours, one if Sebastian slides open the glass door to the balcony, and he likes to think it will never dissipate from his mind because he’s a masochist and because, in Jim’s mildly fond words, he’s an idiot.

Because he’s an idiot, he is almost tempted leave the cigarette on the floor and the blood in the sink and the glass door sealed shut. But almost is for horseshoes and love is for fairytales (he knows this because Jim told him), so he removes all evidence from the hotel room and retreats to another.

Jim’s body is gone from the roof of St. Bart’s Hospital. Sebastian knows this because he took it.

They’d fought that day over something inconsequential, something insufficient, in a manner that was comfortable and easy, and then they’d fucked against a wall, rough and as silent as Jim knew how to be, laughing as Sebastian wrapped a hand around his throat and jerked him off one-two-three like arguing was foreplay, over before it had even really started. Jim had (as always) composed himself in record time, not a hair out of place, and left (as always) without explanation for a hotel across town with Sebastian still achingly hard, the fucker.

Sebastian, because he’s an idiot, replays Jim walking out the door over and over, and over, et cetera, et cetera.

Et fucking cetera.

Jim had texted him later: _Across from St. Bart’s._

And then: _I win, Moran._

Sebastian had disregarded it as nonsense (because who was he to pretend he ever knew what was going on in Jim's head?), had just followed the instructions as Jim sent them.

That’s what he does, what he did – follows instructions – but there are no instructions now, just Jim in a body bag and a crushed cigarette in his trouser pocket.

Jim ends up in an unmarked grave. Sebastian knows this because he puts him there at three in the morning, unceremoniously, like it's just another job (and maybe it is). He climbs out of the hole he dug and stares into it impassively before tossing the body bag in, and it’s stupidly light because Jim is (was) practically emaciated, never took care of himself, and Sebastian never tried to make him because he’s not a babysitter, and because he’s an idiot.

He’s not one for sentiment.

He throws in the cigarette before he fills the grave because he doesn’t want it, and because if anyone would try to get lung cancer in the afterlife, it’s Jim, so why the fuck not. The smell of freshly overturned grass and dirt fills his nose and already he can’t quite recall what Jim’s cologne smells like. He clears his throat and winces, runs a hand through his hair, damp with sweat.

“You win,” he agrees finally, wearily. There is a long moment of silence as his breathing evens out, and then he walks out of the cemetery.

He’s an idiot, but he thinks maybe he knows why Jim leaves without words, without explanations.

There’s never really enough time to say what needs to be said.

 

 

_The entire history of human desire takes seventy minutes to tell._

_Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time._

– Richard Siken, _Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out_


End file.
